


Dead Memories Rise

by thedeafwriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, I'm Sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, Sherlock's scars, finding the scars, kind of?, mild/not very graphic mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeafwriter/pseuds/thedeafwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My headcanon of how John discovered Sherlock's scars from his time taking down Moriarty's web.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Memories Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, minor references/descriptions of violence and completely because I'm Satan's son and I love angst.

In the dark and cold, the concrete floor rubbing at his knees, Sherlock could only hear the slight drip, drip, drip of a leaky pipe, could only feel the aching and open wounds on his wrists from the shackles and on his back from whips of various barbaric designs.

There is a window with no glass or bars - technically it would be classed as an intentional hole in the wall - and through it, the waning moon could be seen. Unlike London - unlike Home - there were no clouds to hide or disguise it. It was there, unblinking, and teasing the instinctual beast inside Sherlock with the taste of freedom.

How long has he been there? He asks himself often, his sense of time had been set off track from days - or was it weeks, months, years or just hours - of complete isolation. No stimuli, no thinking, no feeling, just... Nothing.

Hell.

Time warps and the man who he was supposed to take down has the slender barbed whip in his hand. The silver tips were still red, but dry. The man lifts up his arm and he can’t stop himself from clenching his eyes and screaming.

Screaming.

There are calloused hands on his shoulders - from behind, not in front - and he jerks forwards. Unexpectedly, the floor is carpeted and not concrete and his night shirt had been torn off by himself and was still held tightly in his hands. The room isn’t dark anymore and it that sight in which confuses Sherlock’s sleep addled brain.

John has his eyes wide open and uncomprehending at the place Sherlock previously was, his hands dangling at his side. The walls are blue and calming and there’s a white sheet on his bed underneath his duvet.

Ah.

He’s home. He’s home and he’s not there. He’s safe.

Sherlock finally puts several points together - screaming, night terror, John, shirt - and he looks away, pulling the blanket from under the bed towards him and wrapped it around his shoulders, hiding his back.

“John” he utters softly, still not looking, not willing himself to look at the pity that would undoubtedly be in John’s eyes, the discovery of humanity and pain.

“Want a cuppa?”

Oh? Oh.

It’s John.


End file.
